


The Wolf and Her Dragon

by cathcacen



Series: The Wolf and Her Dragon [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Asoiaf - Fandom, a game of thrones - Fandom, game of thrones
Genre: F/M, jon snow x sansa stark - Freeform, jon x sansa - Freeform, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcacen/pseuds/cathcacen
Summary: Jon finds out he's a Targaryen, and doesn't deal too well. Sansa has a proposal to make. Part 1 of 3.





	1. A Proposal of Sorts

The first time she hears him having a nightmare, it tugs at her heart a little, and she climbs out of bed and creeps across the hallway barefoot. He’d finally agreed to take the Lord’s chambers, but only after she’d promised to take the second-best chambers directly opposite. She didn’t mind. It was good to have someone she trusted just two doors away.

Jon is lying in her parents’ old bed, all covers thrown aside as he frets, grunting and moaning. Quietly, she creeps to him, setting her candle aside, then gently lowers herself onto the mattress by his side. What she doesn’t count on, however, is him waking up.

He lets out a panicked cry as he leaps up, and topples her over, eyes wide with fear. She shrieks; his fingers are wrapped tight about her wrists, and she can barely stifle the faint whimper that escapes her throat. Her throat is tight, and she blinks hard, blinking, blinking away the tears.

_He’s not Ramsey. Breathe._ She forces herself to take a breath. _He is not Ramsey._

He slowly comes to, panting hard. Terror slips away, quickly replaced by horror, and then shame. Quickly, he withdraws, groaning aloud.

“Gods, Sansa. I’m so sorry.” His voice is hoarse.

She shuts her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment before straightening. She ignores the shaking of her shoulders, and looks to him.

Once, her half-brother. Then, a Stark.

Now, a Targeryen. She didn’t need to ask what he’d been dreaming about.

“Do you need something to help you sleep?” She asks, as levelly as she can manage. “Tea?”

He looks at her, and she can see the shadows beneath his eyes. As unlike any Targeryen she’s ever read or heard of. She only sees Jon.

“No.” He grunts. By now, he’s calmed himself a little, and sits, slumped forward. In the dim light of her candle, Sansa can see the crescent-shaped cuts running the length of his torso. Betrayal of his brothers.

And now, he faces betrayal once again. The Lords of the North were unlikely to accept Targaryen seed for their leader.

_They don’t know._ Sansa thinks. _Yet_.

“Jon, we need to make arrangements.” She meets his gaze.

He lets out a sigh. He’d been avoiding her, she knows. “I know.” He admits. She can read the defeat in his voice, but she’s too weary, too exhausted of the fear and anxiety, to let him take his time. They needed to take action, and they needed to take action immediately if they were to survive the coming months.

“Any thoughts?” She asks. She knows he’ll have nothing; he’s been far too caught up in the revelation of his birth to consider more.

He runs a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, and sounds agitated when he speaks again. “For gods’ sake, Sansa, I can barely get through a day without thinking of just damning this all and abdicating.”

She tenses. “You’re the King. You can’t be selfish.”

“Aye, and did I ask for the job?” He snarls at her.

“You’ve always wanted to be a Stark, and to inherit Winterfell, and now you have!” She snaps back.

“Except I’m not, am I?!” His voice rises as he straightens.

She stares at him. She refuses to look away, because to look away would be to admit defeat, and Sansa Stark of Winterfell is no longer a scared little girl who desired only to sire little princes to the Lannister king. And so, eyes hard, she stares at Jon, and hopes he hears her when she speaks.

“Your mother was a Stark.” She says. “You may not have the Stark name, but I do. I do, Jon, and my father was the last True Warden of the North. My brother was the last named King in the North. By all rights, I am the Queen. You are my cousin by birth.”

His brow furrows a bit, and she knows what he’s thinking. He’s finally understood.

_Good._ She thinks.

“I’ve been running this through in my head.” She says, slowly and quietly. She needs him to agree, because it’s the best and safest way – for them both. “You’re a Targaryen. I’m a Stark. We need to stay together, in Winterfell. I won’t risk losing you to the Dragon queen when she comes, and I won’t risk losing myself again, to some lordling who only wants me for my titles and land.” She pauses. “Do you understand?”

He is staring like her as if she were mad, but she presses on anyway. “Do you understand, Jon?”

“Are you saying we should marry?” He says, after a while. She’s glad to note his voice is calmer than before.

“Yes.”

He falters a bit now. “The lords will never—”

“The lords think you’re Ned Stark’s bastard, but make no mistake, Jon, they’re not going to bend the knee to the son of the man who stole away a Northern lady and started this whole ordeal.” She can feel her jaw tensing. “Do you know what Littlefinger wants? He wants the iron throne. Do you think he’ll let you live if he finds out you’ve a stronger claim than any in the realm? No. He’ll rally the Northern lords to his cause, and you’ll be dead before long.”

Jon winces a bit. She knows she’s hit a nerve.

He’d never been fond of Littlefinger.

“We must marry.” She concludes. “We have to do it soon, and privately, preferably in the sight of someone we can trust. Then, we will prepare all the evidence of your being a Targeryen. We will keep Littlefinger occupied; in the meantime, we will inform the lords of your parentage, and of our union. Then we will pretend that we are going to ‘dispose’ of the evidence of your parentage. Littlefinger will find out about this.”

He meets her eyes, and again, she sees the understanding. “It will be imperative.” He says, quietly. “That the lords are in the know about all of this, when Littlefinger tries to oust me with all the cards in his hands.”

Sansa nods. “Yes. And that is when we hang him for treason against the King and Queen in the north.”

The words hang thickly between them. She doesn’t know how long they sit in silence, digesting the information. She knows it is by no means a flawless plan.

But it is all they have, and she refuses to give Jon up.

After, he takes her hand, squeezes tight. She squeezes back.

“Are you certain, Sansa?” His voice is a whisper. It cuts.

“Littlefinger has to go.” She replies. “And I would do anything to keep you by my side, Jon. I’ve done worse for a husband.”

He chuckles dryly. She chances a glance aside at him and notes his wry smile. Outside, the morning birds chirp; the sun slowly begins to rise, tinting the grey-blue skies with orange and magenta.

“I could do worse for a wife.” He says.

“Thankfully, you won’t have to.” She tells him.


	2. The Queen and her King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa takes a King.

In the days leading up to the date, Sansa spends most of her hours locked in her chambers. She tells her ladies that she’s making herself a new dress. She pretends it is to be fashioned as those she’d once donned in the South. Mollified, Littlefinger even supplies the threads and fabrics, rich silks and velvets in antique gold and dark grey. He strokes the fabrics and the pearl-studded lace between his fingers when he comes to visit, and she allows it, all the while hiding her amusement that he has indirectly funded her third wedding dress. When he leaves, she drapes a heavy cloak over the frame of the gown.

It bears a direwolf, pure white upon a sea of grey. Garnets form its eyes.

_Just like Ghost’s,_ she tells herself.

She passes Jon frequently in the hallways. He looks increasingly exhausted, she notes, but with each passing day, and as lord after lord is convinced of his loyalty to the North, and only the North, his vigour renews. He is a man reborn. He belongs.

He’s started referring to her as his wife in private. She’d laughed at it at first, but it ceased to be funny, and instead, turned into something like fond acceptance. Happiness, even.

She knows he has worked tirelessly these past months. Evidence needed gathering. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d got together accounts from various trusted Northmen and maesters. A hand-written order from Rhaegar himself, which placed Ser Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy, guarding Lyanna and their soon to be born babe. Letters from Sam in the Citadel, accompanied by other samples of Rheager’s writing. The midwife who had pulled Jon into the world, in the absence of a maester. Howland Reed himself, an ambassador to the truth that Jon told.

They tread carefully, always. While Jon spends his days locked in ‘council’ meetings with the little bear, Lady Mormont, and others they know to trust, Sansa plays the waiting game with Littlefinger. She is civil, but sharp, and spares him no insult when she thinks he is deserving. To be doting and warm would be to arouse suspicion. Littlefinger would be a fool to think that she trusted him still, and Sansa knew he was no fool.

Still, she has to admit it’s a pleasant sort of game to play. She keeps him enamoured, and keeps him chasing. Favours him with the occasional compliment, yet never outright giving him reason to believe he had won her.

“You serve only yourself.” She says, often, knowing it irks him to know she will never trust him again. It is almost a challenge. _Show me,_ she is saying. _Show me you can serve me, and I may consider you yet._

She knows it frustrates him, and she loves it.

On the night Jon shows up at her door, smiling slightly sheepishly, she knows they’ve done it. They’re almost there, at the precipice of victory. She glances about the corridor. Littlefinger’s been pulled away to the Vale, but she knows he’s planted spies in their midst.

She has her own, now.

“Lord Baelish has had a raven. Young Lord Arryn has taken ill, and has urgent need of his stepfather.” She tells him, once she’s let him in. “Lord Royce has promised to keep him in the Vale, with many urgent matters, until the next full moon.”

He looks slightly relieved. “Mormont and Manderly will be at the heart tree. Three nights.” His gaze sweeps the room, and rests briefly upon the dress she’s got hanging by her wardrobe. “You’re ready, I see?”

She nods briskly, then bends to collect a pile of folded garments upon her bed. Those, she’d hidden with great care. Stitch by endless stitch – clothes for her husband-to-be. She hands them to him, the cloak neatly stacked at the top. “I am. These are for you.”

“You’re going to keep dressing me, aye?” He chuckles, gently fingering the direwolf upon the cloak. “Is this what we are to be? Man and wife?”

“I don’t think we can back out now, to be quite honest.” Sansa quirks a faint sort of smile. “Are you afraid?”

“Do you think the other lords will accept all of this?” He looks up at her, and his tone turns serious. For a moment, Sansa senses his uncertainty.

“We have the lords who matter, and the lords most difficult to convince have already seen our side.” She tells him.

He kisses her forehead before he leaves, and she lingers in his arms, inhales the scent of him.

_We’re so close,_ she thinks. _We’re so close to being truly safe._

When she walks up to him at the heart tree, guided by Ghost, the moon is a gleaming crescent, silver like steel. Lady Mormont, Lord Manderly, Tormund, and Brienne stand witness. Davos officiates.

In the sight of the old gods, they are married. He cloaks her, draws her close, and kisses her with all the tenderness of a gentle prince.

Davos names her the Queen in the North, and proclaims Jon the King.

“Long may he reign.” She says, clear and stern.


	3. Let Him Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger meets his match and maker. Final chapter.

They’re toasting to the memory of her father when Littlefinger speaks. Crowded into the brightly-lit hall, the lords and ladies of the North stand, arms raised, goblets filled with fine ruby wine for the occasion – the anniversary of Ned Stark’s death.

It had been years since kind words had been said aloud of the last true Warden of the North. From where she sits in pride of place beside Jon, Sansa can see the eyes of their people, some wet with tears, others dark with regret, and some yet, burning with hatred for those who had cost their liege lord his life.

She knew all too well what it was to feel a failure. After all, she, too, had failed him.

Jon glanced at her, and she returned his gaze with a wry sort of smile. They had not been married two moons, but he knew her thoughts well. Now, he merely nodded. It was a promise.

_Later,_ his nod said. _Later, I will speak the words to remind you, as many times as you need, that your father’s death is well avenged. That it is not your fault, Sansa. That you were a nightingale amongst lions, taught only to sing their songs. Now you have reclaimed your wolf’s blood. Now you are safe._

The speeches were long and impassioned. They told stories of her father’s bravery, and of his loyalty. They spoke of her mother’s beauty, the regal structure of her bearing now etched in her daughter’s. They sing a song of the Starks, of their kindness and justice and honour, and when they are finished, they turn to Jon, and once again profess their loyalty to the King in the North.

“But is he, though?”

The room goes silent as all eyes turn towards Littlefinger. Beneath the table, Sansa feels Jon’s hand tense about her own. She does not turn to him, however. She watches Littlefinger. Across the hall, their eyes meet, and she purses her lips a touch.

Littlefinger will only assume it is Jon she disapproves of. After all, her expression is but an echo of Catelyn’s, one that had only ever hated Jon.

This is the face that Littlefinger must see, if he is to truly believe that Sansa desires her bastard brother removed of his crown.

Her bastard brother, he thinks. Her husband, she knows.

“Speak up, Baelish. What do you mean?” Glover tells him from across the room.

“I have here letters from the citadel.” Littlefinger stands. He pulls Samwell’s letters from within his robes, where they had been tucked to his chest. Sansa thinks he looks smug – so smug, at his perceived victory. “Proof of his lineage. Your King in the North is no Stark, friends. He is dragonspawn – the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. He has deceived you all.”

The room is silent. Somewhere to a corner, someone lowers their goblet, and the sound it makes against the wood echoes.

Then the hall erupts in shouts. Traitor, they say. Some even draw their swords.

Littlefinger smirks. “A dragon in wolf colours, this one.” He steps forward, tossing the letters onto the table. It lands heavily before Manderly, who picks them up and flips through them, sheaf by sheaf. The old man’s whiskers twitch a touch. Littlefinger moves forward. Like a panther, stalking a helpless animal. His eyes speak only of greed. “He’s ordered these letters burnt, you see, along with all other proof of his birth. I’m informed that he has been gathering evidence of it these past moons, and I imagine, for their destruction.”

Manderly slams the papers into the table, so hard that it overturns his goblet. The wine dribbles over the edge of the table, pooling crimson upon the floor. “Our king, not a Stark? What is the meaning of this?”

“It is quite simple.” Littlefinger turns. He lifts a hand. The he points, directly, towards Sansa. “You should’ve crowned _her_ Queen in the North.”

_Traitor_ , the crowd yells. _Traitor! Liar! Thief and pretender!_

But it is not Jon they yell towards. Not their king.

Sansa allows the corner of her lip to barely twitch. Littlefinger meets her eyes once more, and she watches, triumphant, as his expression turns, slowly. From victory, to pleasure, to confusion – and finally, to realisation.

Jon turns to her, and at long last, she allows herself to meet her husband’s eyes. They share a smile, and Sansa bristles with pride as she stands with him, as one. He raises their entwined hands for all the room to see.

“Aye, Lord Baelish.” Jon’s voice hushes the room. “You’re right. We should have crowned Sansa the Queen in the North from that very first night. But you see, your point is moot.”

Littlefinger straightens, lowers his fisted hands to his side. Even in defeat, the man wore his cunning like armour. “And how so, bastard? Like it or not, you are a Targaryen by birth, and Winterfell is not yours to claim.”

“No.” Sansa speaks up. “It is not his to claim, but mine. And I have claimed it, Lord Baelish. Winterfell is mine, as are these men. I am the Queen in the North, and you would do better to speak to my husband, the King, with respect.”

Littlefinger’s eyes widen a touch. Rendered speechless, he can only stare. The shock turns quickly to anger, and then to hatred.

It only makes her smile.

Littlefinger is not a violent man, she knows. Still, she nods, and the men around him draw their swords. He barely glances aside at them, his eyes affixed only upon her own.

With a quiet, bitter chuckle, he says, “And so the student has surpassed the master.”

It is beyond a lady to scorn a man, but Sansa lets out a dark chuckle, anyway. “Your weapons are lies and deceit, Littlefinger.” She uses the name deliberately. “And like you, they are no longer welcome in Winterfell.”

“You will lose the support of the Vale.” Littlefinger spits. “You think you can hold the North without our support? You will burn.”

“You’ll pardon me, Lord Baelish, but I believe matters of the Vale no longer fall under your command.” Sansa nods towards Royce. “Lord Royce has been commanded by my cousin, Lord Arryn to bring you to the Eyrie. You are to be tried for the murder of my aunt Lysa Arryn, and for the role you’ve played in my marriage to the Boltons.”

“Lord Arryn is my trusted—”

Sansa cuts him off. “My cousin is grateful to Winterfell for supplying information regarding his mother’s murder.” She addresses the room, deliberately. “We have nothing to fear, my lords and ladies. The Vale will continue to stand with us in the wars to come.”

She deigns to meet Littlefinger’s gaze, one last time. He lets out a scoffing breath. Then, he shakes his head. “You’re just like your mother.” He tells her.

Sansa favours him with a smile. “Yes, and my mother never loved you, neither. Hurry home, Lord Baelish. Little Lord Arryn is eager to see you fly.”


End file.
